Mine
by Crown of Black Thorns
Summary: It was then, without a purpose, without friends to protect or loved ones to shield from the burning threat of danger, that the first threads of his very being had begun to fall apart. Rated T for implied sex, IchiHichi, and slight gore.


He clutched at his chest as the blood seeped heavily from the wound, soaking his black Shihakushō, and let out a strangled groan as he began to fall.

_Drip_.

The first sounds of thin river of blood trickling down his chin, dripping, falling singly, and hitting the hard stone of the skyscraper as he gasped, head swirling, stomach churning.

"_I can't see_." He wanted to scream, to shout and shriek until all the air had left his lungs. "_I can't see_." Because the blood that was seeping from the blade's cut above his brows were pouring down tanned skin and bathing his eyes in a pure, hateful _red_.

_Drip... drip_. More blood. More screams. More infuriating weak cries that fell from his lips as the white being stood above him, mouth curled in a glaring leer, a white Zangetsu clutched in its hand.

The hollow must have been disgusted with him. Because he was weak, always so, so, weak, and while he outside he could cover himself with hard shells of strength, with an scowl and a silent promise that screamed, "I will protect everyone", inside he was pathetically and inexplicably _weak_.

He could not believe how fragile he was-up until now, for years and years, he had been denying it. He _would _not believe it, because he was strong-always so strong-and he, _he_, a mere child, would be the last one standing on a bloodied and battered battlefield. Because _he_ was the one who would save anyone and everyone.

It was an overdone and perfectly laughable concept, that of a hero that would never fall: a hero that was indestructible because of his resolve. That was the type of man he had always wanted to be, just like the heroes that flashed before him on the television in half-done jerks of movement, poor animation, heroes that talked too much, pitied too much, and never got a thing done, and somehow at the end they'd always be standing. Somehow, as a child and for the years of his life to come, he'd convinced himself that _resolve_ was what was required of his soul. With that, he could overcome an entire army, blast through walls and concrete, and protect everything he loved.

That was all Ichigo needed then: resolve. At least, that was what he told him two years ago, when the blade had been thrust through his heart and the journey into the realm of death had begun. An awakening of his true powers, the spirit deep within-he had begun to stir.

And somehow he'd managed to convince himself that resolve was what would get him through it all. It was what would drive him through Soul Society, through Seireitei, through blood and battles, of knives and blades ripping through wounded flesh, and all the way to the hill where the _Soukyoku _stood_. _Dual blades that threatened to tear through the lives of those he loved could be stopped by that one thing-resolve.

It had been that way with Aizen, too-it was much less about fighting, much less about training. The more he thought about it, the less he remembered being concerned with the business of that traitor himself. It would have never _been_ about Aizen, had the ex-shinigami not driven his hand through the flesh of his friend. Had the treacherous leech of a man had not torn Orihime away from them.

That was what had stirred Ichigo's resolve.

It was never about Aizen. It was never about saving Karakura. It was about his disgustingly complicated _hero complex_, because Kurosaki Ichigo could never bear to see his precious friends hurt. One scratch on Orihime, on Rukia, or Chad or Ishida, and he would have slammed Zangetsu through your heart.

It was that hero complex that had gotten him where he should've never been in the first place, his weakness for the ones that he loved that had pulled him forward and into the fray-what had gotten him stuck in the crossfire.

And then Soul Society had tossed him away afterwards as if to say: _You never really mattered-all you were meant for has been said and done. You're unneeded now. Dead to us._

It was then, without a purpose, without friends to protect or loved ones to shield from the burning threat of danger, that the first threads of his very being had begun to fall apart.

And now the more he thought about it, the weaker his soul seemed, layer after layer of strength, of reiatsu, of months of restless training, peeled away and left nothing but a fragile little glass heart.

_It snapped._

Right in the hands of something he'd never thought would be seeing him like this-so weak and indescribably fragile.

The hollow was all he had left.

The hollow was the only one who was always there, whispering in the back of his head, threatening and coaxing.

The hollow was the one reminder of _who_ he was and _what_ he was now, and that was why he cringed beneath it. Why he shivered and curled up like a child. Why he whimpered and cried out beneath it.

_It was the only shred of his being he had left._

"Tch. Like I remembered... arrogant little brat of a king never listenin' to me, as always."

He was vaguely aware of a cold hand on his cheek, rough nails trailing along the exposed skin of his chest, and a growl in his ear: "_I told you not to get weak, King._"

And then pain. Sharp, terrorizing agony burning through his torso as a stark white hand was drawn back and plunged deep into the boy's flesh. He fought back tears, because to let the softest sob escape his traitorous lips would be to betray himself, to tear open his heart and show it to the hollow standing before him.

_Just how weak and helpless was he?_

"I told you, King. But you never listen, do you?"

And here he was, with the creature's hand embedded in his chest, salty tears running down his cheeks, blood pouring from his open wound. He screamed as the other withdrew his hand, blue tongue flicking out to taste his own master's blood-and then it had driven deep into him again, clawing at his insides and scratching away at his already dying heart.

_How can I ever protect anyone like this?_

And as if reading his thoughts, the inner hollow scowled, black and golden eyes flashing dangerously, and Ichigo's chin was snatched and jerked so that he was forced, with a painful twist of the neck, to stare into those narrowed, burning eyes.

"You're mine, King."

Wails of agony that ripped through the air as his pale counterpart withdrew his hand from Ichigo's chest. The teen dropped to his knees, the thud of hard bone against stone loud and sharp, just like the pain now rushing through his legs.

He didn't care.

"_You're mine._"

He didn't protest as the front of his Shihakushō was snatched, even as he was lifted off his feet and flung onto his back against the cool of the building.

"I won't let anyone hurt you like I can."

Merciless teeth biting into his shoulder. He felt the warmth of blood just beginning well in the indents of the newly formed marks in his skin. His eyelids suddenly felt heavy-his body limp.

"I won't let anyone control you like this."

Ichigo's eyes snapped open.

... That was what had been missing. All this time, all along the way, that was the one thing he hadn't grasped.

"You're _mine_, King. All mine. Mine to torture, mine to please, mine to _eat_. You _belong_ to me."

As the hollow left bite marks and scratches across his now-scarred skin, he stared up at the skies, at the clouds that drifted sideways and the endless blue that swam across his inner mind.

That was what he had been missing all along.

... _Control._

"... _Mine._"

The words were whispered, hoarse and choked. The hollow's eyes snapped up to stare into his.

"What?" were the only words it breathed before Ichigo had raised a hand to grasp its throat. It let out a strangled yelp that was too loud and sudden to be muffled, and suddenly Ichigo had flipped their positions, and the other was slammed-painfully-against grey concrete.

The grip on the hollow's neck tightened.

He leaned forward, dragging a pink tongue slowly against its white neck, and bit down harshly.

It wailed and thrashed, writhing as the blood from his chest fell and splattered against pure white Shihakushō. He didn't care.

When he finally drew his teeth away from its flesh, he was rewarded with the sight of raw, bruising flesh, bright red from the blood flowing from the bite and the body beneath his trembling with the pain.

_Pain_.

Somehow, now, it translated differently in his mind.

_... Control._

"You're _mine, _hollow," was all he hissed into the hollow's ears before he pulled the Shinigami robes from his shoulders, leaning over to capture the hollow's lips-and then it was heat, all heat, friction, and lusty groans tumbling from his hungry lips. "All mine."

_Mine to control._

_Mine to make bleed._

_Mine to eat._

_... All mine._

He should have killed those Soul Society bastards long ago. Starting with the weaklings, working his way up to the leaders of those heartless bastards, he would have tormented and slain them all.

How could they just leave him behind like that?

How could they just throw him aside?

He peered down at the pale creature that was struggling beneath him, felt the wet heat of its mouth as he bit down on its lower lip and slipped his tongue into pure blissful heat and wetness, and he figured he had at least one thing to thank it for.

_I will kill them. Torture them. Make them suffer. And then they'll be the ones thrown aside. They will all fall, one by one, into my hands. Mine to control... to destroy as I want. _

_And everything will be mine._

... Kurosaki Ichigo was free.


End file.
